


Hands of the Beholder

by silvaaeterna



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Blindness, Drama, Gen, Introspection, One-Sided Relationship, Religious Discussion, non-canon backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 07:16:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10849104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvaaeterna/pseuds/silvaaeterna
Summary: Near’s eyesight has never been perfect, but ever since the explosion destroyed Mello's hideout with the fool still inside, he’s been inexplicably going blind.





	1. Rupture

**Author's Note:**

> This story sat unfinished for almost a decade: it had an ending planned but not written, and a lot of stuff in the middle that needed reworking. It’s a concept and a story that’s stuck in my mind, though, and I knew one day I’d have to finish it.
> 
> You can infer slashiness here if you like, but it's vague and one-sided at best. If you like angst and introspection and Near being uncomfortable, though, oooooh boy, are you ever in the right place. Enjoy!

It's six a.m., and again he finds himself looking at the picture.

He could spend his mornings watching the sun slowly rise over the New York skyline, but he’s content enough to see just that bright smile and perfect sunshine hair. Here are his guilty pleasures, all sweetly summarized in a simple Polaroid, and dwelling upon them for these few scant moments each day is the only indulgence he allows himself.

But there's no secret joy in this ritual anymore, no tingling in the pit of his stomach, no private smile upon his pale lips. He looks into those blue eyes – so much softer in this photo than he’d ever seen in person – and there is a tense pulling deep inside his chest.

This snapshot from the past might be all that's left of Mello.

He wishes he could look back on that long ago autumn in England and say that he was happy then, that _either_ of them had been happy in those days, but he frowns and halts that thought. As useful as lying may be when dealing with others, he will not stoop so low as to lie to himself. He knows that Mello only smiled that day because there had been a camera pointed at him.

His eyes twitch, and the line of Mello's mouth disappears, his hair blurring into the golden foliage behind him. When the boy begins to shake back and forth, Near squeezes his racing eyes shut and returns the photograph to its hiding place within his white pajama top. Sprawling his short legs out on the floor, he madly rubs at his eyes, but when he blinks them open the room is still fuzzy and the monitors all run together on the walls. His hands cover his face, and he tries to hold his quivering eyelids still for a few moments.

He peeks between his fingers, trying to focus on the tower of dice beside him. He can see the outline of the black and white Empire State Building he constructed yesterday, but he can't tell one die from another.

He shuts his eyes and grits his teeth and sends a socked foot crashing into the tower.

Hundreds of dice tumble and clack on the hard floor, but even in this rare display of anger he holds back and kicks it just hard enough to rupture its foundation, letting it fall in a pile. To have all those dice scattered across the room would inconvenience himself and his team, and cleaning them up would be an unnecessary waste of time.

He draws his leg back, hugging his knee to his chest. To think so far ahead is nothing out of the ordinary for him, nor is keeping his head together in the wake of emotions; these talents usually work to his advantage, but right now he finds them despicable. An angry Mello would have sprayed dice debris over the whole room, and when not a one was left stacked he would have stomped on the tiny cubes in some vain attempt to break them, to _destroy_ them. Ridiculous, yes, but he imagines such rage would be intensely liberating.

His black eyes emerge again, and though their shaking has stopped, the effects linger. He can see his hands and the buttons of his shirt clearly enough, but the outlines of the furniture and fixtures in the sterile room are lost to him. His eyesight has always been somewhat weak, but with every passing day since the explosion – since that insane last-ditch maneuver destroyed Mello's hideout with the fool still inside – his vision has been rapidly and irrefutably deteriorating.

He has an inkling that his condition is a psychological one, triggered by that very event. A preposterous idea, yes, but nevertheless one he cannot rule out.

That little spark of hope lying in the back of his mind, however – the thought that, if Mello somehow turns up alive, his vision will return to normal – is absurd at best.

 _“If my life were any emptier, I’d cease to exist, at least according to my mother,”_ a woman's voice echoes from the hall outside _. “Career be damned, I suppose. I can't possibly be happy if I'm not popping out grandchildren for her.”_

 _“Ha, my mom's the same way,”_ a man laughs just outside the door. _“She won't stop bugging me to find a nice girl and settle down!”_

Near picks up a cold die from the floor, cursing himself for being so distracted as to let their approaching footsteps go unnoticed. He holds the little gambling piece up to his face and lets his eyes focus on it until the edges become clear.

The black dots still refuse to sharpen, no matter how often he blinks or how much he squints.

_“You know, if we worked together we could easily shut both our mothers up...”_

_“Don't push your luck, Gevanni.”_

He scowls and places the die on the floor in front of him, working solely by the feel of the recessed dots to make sure that the evenly-spaced four faces him and the neat rows of the six lay on top. As the heavy door opens behind him, he begins a founding row of twenty dice, a perfectly straight line with fours all forward and sixes high. He listens to the slick Oxfords and clicking heels coming nearer, and idly wonders if either of them are astute enough to notice how slowly his dice move from the pile on his right to the neat row before him, or how long each spends between his fingers before he gently sets it in place.

He rather doubts it.

“Good morning, Near,” Lidner greets him first, heels stopping at his left. “Starting another tower, I see.”

Near is silent, and does not even look up at the patronizing woman to acknowledge her presence. Thankfully, she is reasonably quick to take hints and leaves his side then, moving on to check the computers across the room as he begins his second row.

Gevanni comes next, but he only stops for a moment, bows, and gives a short, “Good morning, sir,” before following her. He, at least, seems to know better than to play friendly to an unwelcoming audience.

Lester arrives two minutes and two more rows of dice later, but he does not pause for mere greetings. The plastic tray he carries clacks as he sets it upon a table a few feet from Near's station on the floor. A shuffling of paper follows it. He boldly steps between the new tower's foundation and the old's pile of rubble, slapping one shoe against the other as he takes his usual military stance. Near stops now and looks up at the man, though he can see only as far as his elbows and the manila folder in his hands very clearly.

“Yes?” he questions flatly, abandoning the dice to twist a curl of white hair between his fingers.

“Your breakfast is on the table, Near, sir,” Lester states, his confident speech suspiciously quiet. He is a man who never speaks without good reason, and Near is in no mood to wait needlessly for it.

“The point, Commander Lester.”

“We have... received some new information from the Los Angeles police department.” Lester extends his arm and offers Near the folder, but the colorless boy turns away with a deep frown and picks up another die. He can barely make out the large print on the outside of the folder, and will not give himself away by trying to read whatever papers it holds. He has thus far refused to admit his optical shortcomings to the team, and would rather they remain in the dark until absolutely necessary. His pride demands that much.

“Give me the important points,” he commands, finding the four-dotted side of the die with his thumb. “I have little time to pick through poorly written police reports.”

“Of course, sir.” Lester clears his throat nervously. “It seems that, in cleaning up the debris of the mafia hideout, another corpse was discovered in the room that Mello and the Japanese Vice-Director were in at the time of detonation. The body was wedged beneath a support beam and hidden by a fallen portion of the roof, which explains why the initial sweep failed to find it.”

The die is squeezed tight between his fingers, the four in front and the six on top, but Near's hand stops midair above the half-finished row.

“Has this body been identified?” he deadpans, rubbing his index finger over the two dots on the left side of the die.

“No. The police are still awaiting the DNA results, and are attempting to match dental records,” the older man says uneasily. “The body was burned beyond recognition, but is male, with a very slim build, and... from the skeletal structure, they estimate him to have been between the ages of 18 and 22.”

Near at last puts the die in its place, and stares blankly down at the white square forming on the floor as his eyes start to shake again.

“Cause of death?” He blinks and rubs at his eyes in the most casual manner possible, hoping the movement will go unnoticed. It does him little good, and his field of vision continues to shimmy back and forth.

“The initial explosion shook the beam loose, and it fell on him. Since he seemed to have no internal injuries, they believe that the beam did not kill him, but only pinned him down. He burned to death.”

Near's left eye twitches uncontrollably now, independent of the right, and he slaps a hand over it with the least amount of thought he has given to any physical action in recent memory. He is prepared to accept that Mello might have died that day, but this... This could not be right, they must have made some mistake in their conclusions, some oversight – surely the burnt flesh hid a fatal bullet wound, or the beam had snapped his neck, or the shock of the explosives had knocked the life out of him.

Surely Mello had not died so shamefully as _she_ died.

As hazy as his present vision is, so finely does his mind's eye see the past, so loudly do the screams of long ago ring in his ears, so warm are the torches of superstitious villagers as they surround a single hut, laughing and gloating in assumed victory even as their target hides silent and alone in the tropical brush. He squeezes his eyes shut; he is not even angry. In his heart he is laughing with them, mocking the pointless death of that foolish woman in that flimsy shack of a home. But he is laughing at the perpetrators too, the idiots that have set their neighbor's house aflame to kill a demon child but have killed its mother instead. His coal-black eyes open and glare at them from behind the leaves, and he wishes the villagers would die as well – not to avenge his mother, or even to save his own life, but because people so utterly worthless do not deserve to live.

He wonders if these thoughts are evil, if he truly is the abomination they fear, if he deserves their righteous wrath after all...

“Near..?”

He rubs his eyes once more and finds his vision clearing. He can see the dice before him now, the individual cubes that make up each row and column, and can nearly decipher each little dot in the lines that stripe the top of his construction.

He sees that his first perfect row was crooked all along, and scowls.

“If it is Mello,” Near declares coldly, picking up a die from the pile and rolling it across his fingers, “the police will have no records to compare. If no identification is made after all methods have been exhausted, _then_ we may assume it is him.”

“Understood.”

“Is that all, Commander?”

“Yes, Near, that's all.”

“Let me know when they make the ID, then.” He realizes his mistake as soon as it escapes his mouth. His eyes shy off to the left, as far from Lester as he can point them.

“Of course, sir,” Lester replies with a curt nod, perhaps not noticing.

Near stands slowly, and his hand autonomously rises to fidget with the curly hair that hangs by his ear, despite the little cube still nestled in its palm. He cannot stay in this room, with these _people,_ with his mind so clouded as to let some stupidly hopeful _'when'_ slip out in place of a safely neutral _'if.'_

“I am going to wash up before I take my breakfast,” he quickly excuses himself, pointing his white-socked toes toward the heavy steel door before the other can reply.


	2. Spark

The immaculate bathroom is a lonely, sterile haven. His vision is steady for now, and he stares into his own black eyes as he scrubs his hands for a fourth and final time.

The photo sits on the counter by the sink, the die he unintentionally took with him pinning it down. Two black dots lie face up atop straight-cut yellow hair. Mello is the only spot of color in the entire room – the only thing that's not brushed metal grey or porcelain white or checkered linoleum black. Even in a photograph, he plays the same role he always has in Near's world.

He takes two paper towels to dry his hands, and before he can even turn off the faucet his right hand is hovering by his ear and his fingers are anxiously wound in downy hair.

Perhaps he could never claim that Mello had truly been his friend, but in all his nineteen years, that petulant Slavic boy was the only one who ever came close. Mello may have felt nothing but hate for him, but Near finds no sense in denying how intertwined their lives had become in Quillsh Wammy's cloistered orphanage.

Mello landed there long before Near arrived. How long before, he did not know, but by the time Near was brought to the House he already had a well-established reputation. Every child knew his name (his alias, rather), and no one dared cross him or point out his feminine looks. He sat at the head of every class, outshining the others by leaps and bounds. He spoke perfect English, though his Russian accent still held strong back then, and was studying five other languages. He stirred up trouble for kicks, but the teachers let him get away with almost anything. Though only eight years old, he was the most promising successor for L that they had to offer.

But Near didn’t know or care about L, not yet. All he knew was that Mello was the brightest spark of life in a place filled with the children of death.

And he wouldn't give Near the time of day.

He would waltz right past the albino, and it made no difference if Near spent his whole day constructing and deconstructing puzzles on the floor or vainly following behind Mello with some pathetic hope of winning his attention. For two months, he could not be sure if Mello even knew his name; for two months, he privately worked to improve his English and catch up to the other children in his age group.

One day, in the third month, he surpassed Mello, and was favored with the intense glare of his insolent blue eyes. The House's flagship child bared his teeth like some primitive animal, and all for him.

He basked in the older boy's beautiful rage. Something inside him tingled with excitement every time the blond directed his torrid emotions at him, every time he tried to force Near out of his icy shell with his boundless fire. Seeing Mello's reactions parred with making the highest grades and inheriting L's legacy, even spurred him to do so.

And so, he learned to smile at the insults. He spoke calmly and quietly when the other yelled. He refused to gift him with a single yelp or grunt when he hit him. Near’s passivity stoked the flames of Mello’s ire, and he drank it in with a sick desperation.

He took Mello's abuse, because only he was completely unintimidated by Near’s demeanor.

He took it because Mello was enticing and alive and _human_.

He took it because Mello was everything that he was not.

Even now, though he’d not seen Mello once in the four long years since he left the House, his rival stays lodged in his mind just as his likeness stays tucked in his shirt pocket. He cannot make a single move without considering, if only for a second, what Mello's response would be, or what he might have done differently. He wonders how things might be if Mello did not hate him so, if he had agreed to work with him instead of against him, and if their combined minds would have already sent Kira to death by now.

He wonders if Mello would still live, if he would have him at his side, or if he would have insisted on recklessness and gotten himself killed anyway, while Near sat safe in this fortress of a headquarters and watched him die from behind a glowing monitor.

He hears sharp footsteps outside the bathroom door. He should have known someone would come to check on him; he has spent far too long mulling over stale memories and fruitless wonderings.

“Near? Are you all right?”

He frowns at the womanly alto and answers with a curt, “Yes,” but still she steps inside.

He quickly gathers up the photograph and tucks it inside his shirt. The door closes behind her with a slow hydraulic gasp.

“Near,” she begins again, now towering over his white form in her heels, “it's okay to be worried about Mello. None of us will think any less of you for it.”

He turns flat slate eyes up at her, unsure if she’d seen the photo or been clued in by his earlier conversation with Lester, paranoid that it might be both.

“It is clear that Kira felt threatened by his actions. My only concern is that his death may cost us that valuable edge,” he bluffs.

The blonde frowns down at him like a disapproving mother. Near curls a lock of hair around his finger.

“You don't believe in God, do you, Near?”

“I fail to see how that could be relevant, Agent Lidner.”

“Does Mello?” she presses unabated.

“He is a Catholic,” Near admits. He doesn’t know why he bothers indulging the woman's whims. “Though I have never understood how someone so intelligent could buy into those ridiculous superstitions.”

“Have you never been religious at all?”

“I have studied all the world's religions and found all equally imbecilic.”

“You can't understand religion just from reading books about it,” she tells him, softer now. “It's about people and emotions, not just rules and rituals.”

“Books contain all the knowledge of the world, every facet of human civilization, and it is from them that I have gleaned everything I know,” he states in firm monotone. “If such an education is insufficient, I should like to know why I was chosen to lead this investigation in the stead of someone more qualified.”

“That isn't what I meant, and you know it.”

“Then please, Lidner, do enlighten me as to your point.” Her face is plainly exasperated, and he is sure that he has already won. But then she stands up tall and confident and flips her hair behind her shoulder.

“Books can't teach you about _humanity,_ Near. They can't teach you how to love, or how to deal with death,” she declares, and grasps his shoulders impudently. _“That's_ what God is there for, Near. Books may feed the mind, but only God can feed the soul.”

_“God,”_ he snarls, shaking off her invasive hands and backing against the counter, “is for weaklings who cannot deal with being alone.”

“But that's just it.” Lidner's eyes are hooded under defeated blonde bangs. “Humans were never meant to _be_ alone. If a person spends their entire life alone, then...”

“They become like me,” he interrupts, narrowing his cold eyes. “Is that it?”

Lidner backs away, looking deservedly ashamed. Near pulls a paper towel from the dispenser and brushes off his shoulders where she touched him, restricting his movements and keeping them slow. He will not disgrace himself with the furious scrubbing he feels compelled to do to rid himself of her.

“I'm sorry, Near... sir,” she resigns. “I didn't mean it like that, it's just...”

“I don't care what you meant,” he cuts her off, wanting to end the conversation before the deluded woman notices that he's blinking more often now, and that his eyes have started to vibrate like two tiny buzzers in his skull. “If you have nothing of importance to say, then leave. This prattling has wasted more than enough of my time.”

“Fine,” she huffs, marching toward the door. “But for what it's worth, I believe he's alive.”

“It is remotely possible that he could have escaped the building and evaded our satellite cameras, if his injuries were not too terrible. We’ve discussed that.” Near plucks at his hair again instinctively, trying to regain some control over himself. He doesn't know if the rapid movements of his eyes are noticeable to her or if they only feel magnified in his own head, but he keeps his face averted in either case.

“I'm not talking about whether it's possible or impossible.” She grips the door handle hard. “I'm saying I _believe_ it, despite whatever the odds say. If he means anything at all to you, then maybe you should believe it too.”

“Whether Mello is dead or alive has already been decided, we have simply yet to discover that outcome for ourselves,” he scoffs, watching himself steadily blurring in the mirror. “What good will our _believing_ do him?”

She laughs at him, bitterly.

“For God's sake, Near, we're hunting someone who deals out hundreds of deaths every day just to impose his beliefs on the world, and you still don't think that a person's faith has any effect on those around him?”

“That is profoundly stupid.” He spares her a glance; her angry eyes shine as intensely as Mello's.

“ _Faith_ is not stupid! The ability to have faith, to cling to hope in the face of the unknown, it's one of the most powerful weapons in the human arsenal! It's in our nature, Near, and if you can't even understand that then...” Her voice shakes, and she slams down the door handle. “Then _you're_ the one who's stupid!”

She storms out, and Near could swear that the lingering scent of her perfume is tinged with chocolate.


	3. Damage

He makes his way back to the main room mostly by feel. His vision is crooked; his left eye's sight is so fuzzy now that it is practically useless. Through his right eye he sees the familiar glow of countless monitors outlining the door of his destination, and that is enough to give him direction. He runs delicate white fingers over smooth blank walls, his slow walk down the hall unfettered by furniture or other obstacles. He is now grateful for the complete lack of fuss taken in the decoration of the SPK building.

He finds the cold steel door and runs his palms down it; it is sterile and clean until he reaches the handle. Perhaps no one else would notice the difference, but Near does. He pushes the handle down gently, letting only his barest fingertips risk touching the minuscule layer of grime left by the hands of the other investigators.

He is surprised to find Gevanni on the other side of the door.

At least, from the general shape and dark hair, he can assume that it is Gevanni.

“Near! I was just about to come looking for you!” he bursts out, bowing, his voice confirming his identity. “The Vice President is on television. He's supposed to be giving a statement about Kira in just a few moments.”

“Is that so?” Near drones, uncaring, stepping past Gevanni – or rather, between the human-shaped blob he’s identified as Gevanni and the straight but blurry outline of the doorway.

He knows the room well enough, from spending most of his days and nights here, to navigate his way past desks and chairs and the areas of the floor most heavily concentrated with dice and cards and toys.

The largest monitor screen sits in the center of the far wall, and only by the larger-than-life size can he be sure that the navy-clad man in the center is the Vice President. By the prominent red, white, and blue, he knows that the two thin structures at his sides are flagpoles. Lester and Lidner stand in front of the monitor. Near can only tell them apart from the crowd of reporters on the screen by the fact that the silhouettes of their legs extend all the way to the floor.

“It seems he called this press conference less than an hour ago,” Gevanni says, trailing along behind him.

“A nationally broadcast press conference this early in the morning... It may be an emergency announcement,” Near ponders, stopping just behind the wider shape of Lester.

“It could be that Kira, or someone masquerading as Kira, has made threats against the Vice President,” Lester booms. “After the President's sudden death last week, _any_ threat would be taken extremely seriously.”

“Yes, I am actually surprised that the President has lain dead for this long without _someone_ taking advantage,” Near calmly adds, “or attempting to incite more panic than Kira already has.”

On the screen before them, the Vice President coughs and clears his throat; the idle conversation both in the room and within the televised crowd is abruptly hushed, and all attentions turn to him.

When Near is sure that his team is fully focused on the television, he reaches up to rub at his infuriating left eye.

“We, the people of the United States of America,” the old man's voice starts shakily, “considering not only the tragic loss of our President, but also the beneficial destruction of the mafia and the elimination of virtually all crime and war...”

Near scowls; he does not need to see the fool's face clearly to know that he is sweating now, and with good reason. He knows just by the tone of his voice why this conference was called.

“We hereby acknowledge Kira, and will no longer go against him,” he declares amidst a rising cacophony of disbelief. “The United States will stop every effort to catch Kira and advise other nations to do the same.”

“If that's the case,” Lidner murmurs over the angry questions of the reporters on the screen, “then what will happen to us?”

Near backs toward a miniature city of Lego blocks. No matter how much he wipes at his eyes, it does nothing to help this time. He lowers himself to the floor and sits with one knee hugged to his chest.

“It's simple. We will be disbanded, and all because of that chicken-hearted president,” he grumbles, letting a stray hand wander to the floor and pick up the first thing it encounters – a red robot whose square, painted face is as good as blank to him.

“Near..,” the woman whispers.

“No, he's far from chicken-hearted,” the pale boy amends, snapping the toy's flimsy plastic neck joint, “he's less than a _maggot_.”

“What do we do about this, then?” Lester asks point-blank, taking three long strides toward him. He stops just outside the wall of tiny plastic bricks that Near built only a week ago, the one he had striped with green and blue and white, the one that stood before him now as a dizzying mess of color, like some child had come in armed with finger-paints and ravaged it during the night.

“Obviously we are not complying with that coward's prescribed surrender,” he spits in reply, squeezing the severed robot head between his fingers. He wants to hurl it across the room in anger. He wants to do it in spite of his constant sidelong thoughts, the concerns of how he might forget and trip over the damned thing later, but he cannot help over-thinking even this trivial action. He settles for tossing it anticlimactically against the Lego wall.

“But how can we continue?” Gevanni pops in. “We'll have no monetary support now, and we'll be cut off from police records...”

“Not only that, but what we're doing will now be considered illegal,” Lidner adds bitterly. “Kira is given free reign over this country, and _we_ become the criminals.”

“I have more than enough private funding to keep us in operation. Losing the cooperation of the police is more concerning. However..,” Near ponders, a little smile lifting up the corners of his mouth, “we may yet draw some strategic advantages from this situation.”

“How do you figure that?” Sarcasm bites in Lidner’s voice, but Lester turns bodily toward her and shuts her up. Near can easily imagine the stern look he must be giving her.

“If we are criminals, then we will use the criminal world to our advantage,” he explains, setting what's left of the robot upon the floor and fingering a curl of hair instead. “If we find ourselves in need of a physical force, we can gather those who still despise and defy Kira to our side. And Mello, if he is still alive, may join us as well.”

“You believe that Mello will try to contact us?” Lester clarifies. “Considering all that he has done until now, wouldn't it be dangerous to get in touch with him?”

“Naturally, but all of you have long been prepared to face death in the pursuit of Kira, have you not?” he coldly asks. He cannot tell whether any of them nod, but since none voice an immediate concern, he continues. “Besides, the possibility that he would pose a threat to us now is extremely low. Mello's goal has always been to show that he is more worthy of L's title than I am; simply killing me would never satisfy him. As for the rest of you, he probably knew your names and faces, and yet, when he executed the other SPK members, he left you three alive. He probably intended to use one of you.”

Near's fingers are tangled deep in his hair by now. The others stand silently waiting as he unwinds and frees them.

“He will most likely contact you, Lidner,” he concludes, sneaky smile growing on his face. “As a woman, he would view you as physically and mentally weaker – easier to manipulate and bend to his whims. In this event, please do not hesitate to give him all the information we have. Humor those whims of his, whatever they may be, and he may even become inclined to work with us. After all...” He picks up a blue robot that lies beside his foot and runs his fingertips over its textured breastplate. “Since he has lost his mafia support, and we our legal support, an alliance would greatly benefit us both.”

The others still are silent, and Near takes this as a sign of acceptance. He drops the robot on the floor with a hollow _clack._

“In fact, if he does not come to us even after hearing of this country's acceptance of Kira, it should be safe to assume that he is dead.”

He expects at least some protest from Lidner for such a statement, but none of the three say a word. He blinks twice and looks up at them, though from the floor he can barely see their faces well enough to tell who is who. He might do better to squint, but for dignity's sake he restrains himself.

“Is there a problem?” he demands impatiently. With the other two watching, Lester squats down to his level. He is close enough that Near can make out the wide, frowning line of the commander's mouth.

“Near, is there something wrong with your eye?”

“I do not know what you are referring to, Commander,” Near lies.

“It's just... It's your left eye, sir,” he says quietly. “It looks... foggy.”


	4. Fool

They should have killed him then. Most of them had wanted to, when he spat out their blessed wine. Not for the first time, he is ejected from the shrine amidst cries of _“Demon!”_ and _“Heretic!,”_ but it's not as if he has very far to go.

He settles on the ground some paces down the road, halfway between the superstitious center of the village and his mother's hut. He has gathered a handful of sticks along the way, and he embeds them one by one into a puddle of mud. He builds a circular foundation within the puddle, a sturdy base of longer support sticks and a center of carefully criss-crossed twigs. He pulls up the grass and leaves from the ground around him and thatches a roof over the miniature hut, and all before the idiots can finish with their ridiculous ceremonies and seep out of the shrine.

 _If my hands are busy_ , he thinks, _no devil they dream up can be said to possess them._

* * *

 When he wakes, the dream whisks away into darkness, and his fingers are left twitching as much as his eyes. He wishes he could say that the latter is due only to the vestiges of REM sleep, but he knows better than to nurture such hopes.

He sits up in his little-used bed in his little-used bedroom. No matter what he did to try to convince the others that his vision problems were most likely temporary, they had still doted on him like a sick child. Granted, he did spend most of his time working out his thoughts and theories on a massive collection of toys, but they should know better by now than to confuse that for playing.

After the excitement of the Vice President's announcement had died down, the others had insisted that Near go to his room and get some rest. He had already been up for two straight days and nights, and Lidner, at least, seemed convinced that the lack of sleep was contributing to his current malady. He caught a funny tone in her voice, and he knew that the presumptive woman was thinking that it had more to do with Mello than anything. She didn't have to spell her opinion out for him any more than she already had in the restroom that morning.

He cannot deny her worth as an agent, but he sometimes cannot stand her attitude, the way she always tries to pick at him and pull out some emotion, the way she tries to figure him out, and the way she tries to teach him things, as she had today. He cannot stand how much, sometimes, she acts like some cheap female imitation of Mello.

But most of all, he cannot stand the thought that, in this case, she could be right.

He draws one knee up to his chest and tugs up the sock that had slid partway off his foot as he slept. His other leg is tangled in the chaotic bedsheets that surround him. If there is one thing he can never seem to keep orderly, it is his bed. He has always kicked and tossed more violently in his sleep than he ever has in waking. He wonders if that’s one of the reasons his native people – though he shudders to think that he’s remotely related to them – believed him to be evil. The unnaturally white hair and soulless black eyes had fueled such rumors from the time he was born, but seeing him writhing and moving as he slept could not have helped his case.

His father had died while he was still in the womb – an accidental death which none had posited as supernaturally influenced at the time. When he was born, they were quick to amend the story and blame the accident on him. It was the first of many calamities they would scapegoat him for.

The advent of Christianity had made no difference in their opinions, either. The missionaries were Catholic, like Mello, and though the people pretended to grow calmer and throw away their old traditions, the new religion had never stopped them from tormenting and alienating the demon-possessed freak child. It didn't matter that they gave him a Christian name, that they made him wear the same cross around his throat as they did. Their hatred was something too strong for any god to break.

The _fools_.

He reaches inside his pajama shirt and takes out Mello's photograph from its hidden pocket. Despite his restless sleep, it remains safe and undamaged. Somehow he has managed to protect it there, nestled flat against his thin chest, for all these four years that it has been in his possession, the four years since Mello left the orphanage with only this small trace of himself forgotten in a dresser drawer. Near knows he would have wanted it destroyed, but Kira's eyes would find it no easier here, on his person, than burned up in some faraway fireplace.

Near holds the picture in front of his face, but he sees it more clearly in his mind now than he would if he dared to turn on the light and take a chance with his vision. A part of him wants to remain in the dark, to put off knowing whether his sight is better or worse after these few hours' sleep.

His mouth betrays his feelings and curls into a bitter smile. If Mello could see him now, he would laugh in his face and never stop. He would describe the beauty in everything he saw and berate Near for missing out. He would take every advantage – sneak up behind him, trip him, jump him, scare him – and then laugh even more.

Near closes his eyes and brings the picture to his chest. He would welcome Mello's mocking laughter now. His memories of that sound just aren't sharp enough anymore.

His left eye throbs, and another shadow of the past comes floating to the forefront of his mind. Something from back at the House, in the days that he might eventually, pathetically, call the happiest of his life.

Near had been sitting in the floor assembling a plain, white puzzle when a ten-year-old Mello had come trouncing up to him. He is barefoot with his arms crossed over his chest and a devious grin stretched across his fair face. His roommate and favorite lackey Matt trails along behind him, as always, with that same old look of hopeless devotion written all over his face, visible even beneath the orange bubble lenses of the goggles he’s wearing.

“Well, would ya look at this, Matty,” he snorts. “The smart-alek little freak's playing with his precious toys again. Big test tomorrow and he doesn't bother to study, doesn't even _move!_ He just sits here all damn day with that smug look on his face and plays with the same damn puzzle over and over.”

“Good afternoon to you as well, Mello,” Near replies calmly, fighting down a smile as he snaps another puzzle piece in place. He can practically feel the blond boy seething at his lack of reaction.

“For God's sake,” the other continues, pointing back at Matt, “even _he_ take breaks from video games once in a while, but _you_ don't stop long enough to use the bathroom. No wonder your clothes are so damn baggy. You're probably still in diapers, you big baby!”

“How unfortunate for you, then, if a baby should score higher than you on tomorrow's exam,” Near observes in low monotone.

Mello grits his teeth and downright _growls_. Matt silently backs away. The blond fireball's fist comes crashing straight into Near's left eye, and in seconds he is splayed out on his back and Mello's bony knees are threatening to crush his ribs as he pummels him into the floorboards.

He remembers how strange it looked, the next day, to see his purple, bruised eye in the mirror – to see any color at all on his pale face.

He remembers, too, the blue rage in Mello's eyes when Near beat his test score by one point.

He opens his eyes upon the present now, and looks out into the darkness. He’s reminded of something important, something he didn’t consider before.

He slips off the bed and reaches in the dark for the phone, dialing the numbers by touch. He waits two rings. He hears a click and a breath and does not wait any longer.

“Roger,” he says without fuss, “I need to speak to Matt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Near's early childhood backstory here is adapted from an older fic of mine called “Nameless,” which you can find here: www.fanfiction.net/s/4459060/1/Nameless
> 
> It's a quick read, and I still think it's one of my best fics. A lot of the details are different in this version, so it's not as if you need to read it to understand this story. But the concept is the same, and there’s also some explanation of where the idea came from in the author’s notes of that story, if you're curious. :)


	5. Distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is about to get dark in spots, and maybe earn that T rating, just to warn you.
> 
> Also, writing in the present tense is really annoying. I started it that way for stylistic purposes I guess, but it gets tedious to maintain (and to watch the tense shifting when it’s needed). Just a note to other writers out there, I wouldn’t advise it for longer stories. But most of this story was already written that way when I picked it back up, so I stuck to it for better or worse... XD

“...Near?” the old man yawns on the other end of the phone line. “Isn't it awfully late?”

“So it is, Roger, but I must speak to him regardless of the time.”

“To Matt?”

“Yes, to Matt.”

Roger pauses, and Near can hear the distinct hesitation in his breath as a sign of some inner conflict. After all those years of interrogation training, of learning to read every expression and breath and sidelong glance of a person, did the old man really think he could get anything past him, even over the phone?

“What is it you’re not telling me?” Near presses, unwilling to let the insufferable silence continue.

“What are you talking about? I'm not hiding anything,” he laughs nervously.

“Do not waste my time, Roger.”

“Ah, well, the truth is..,” the old man mumbles, sounding almost embarrassed. “Matt is gone.”

“Gone _where_?” Near asks, exasperated.

“I honestly don't know. He ran off quite a while ago, but he had been so bloody _quiet_ ever since you and Mello left, always just keeping to himself in his room... It took us a few days to realize he wasn't in there anymore.”

“I see. In that case...”

“May I ask why you want to talk to him?” he interrupts. “I didn’t think the two of you were on friendly terms...”

The question catches Near off-guard. It is not often that a person contradicts Near's requests; he is accustomed by now to giving orders and getting his way. Nevertheless, he cannot deny that it is a valid question, and one he should have answered for himself before he ever picked up the phone, had he the courage to put this sudden urge into words.

Maybe it's because, if he were to die, he knows there would be no one to miss him – the only concern then, as it was with L, would be to find a replacement. Only a handful of people in the entire world would ever know that someone called Near had lived or died.

But Mello... He has someone. And if he is dead, then Matt at least deserves to know the truth of it.

He certainly wouldn't tell Roger all of that, though.

“Did he leave no method of contact?” Near continues, finally ignoring the nosy question altogether.

“None.”

“And definitely no indication as to where he was headed?”

“No, but I can only assume it had something to do with Mello,” Roger yawned. “He left the same way, packed up one night after lights-out and took off just like Mello did. He always did follow that boy everywhere...”

“I understand. Thank you, Roger.”

“Yes. Good night, Near.”

He depresses the hang-up button with his thumb, forgoing the pointless courtesy, and fumbles with the receiver a moment before it finally lays correctly in its cradle. He finds his bed again and sits, compulsively replaying the conversation over and over in his head. With a deep sigh, he realizes there is little value in it.

Perhaps Mello had contacted him out of the blue, suddenly needing the help of the friend he’d abandoned. Matt, being Matt, would have almost certainly obliged. But at the same time, Matt might have rushed off entirely on his own. Maybe he’d been tracking Mello and decided to get involved once he’d found him. Maybe he’d just decided to get out and live his own life, and to hell with Mello and Near and Kira. Ultimately, the mere fact that he had left tells Near almost nothing.

And yet, his instincts tell him that there _is_ a piece of the puzzle here, and they compel him to seek it out.

He hasn’t got much to go on. To call Matt a friend would be a greater stretch of the definition even than extending it to Mello. The red-headed boy was, however, one of the few people that Near did not object to spending time with, and who likewise had never objected to Near's presence (unless Mello was around, but that was all for show). The two of them had exchanged only meaningless pleasantries and at most a dozen idle conversations over the years, but even that was more interaction than the other orphans willingly had with Near.

They’d spoken a bit more often after Mello’s sudden departure, when Near wasn’t gathering data on the Kira case and when Matt wasn’t shut up in his room, presumably moping. Sometimes he’d show up when Near was working, only to sit silently in the background playing his well-worn Gameboy, little more than a living shadow in the corner of the room. And he supposes that’s what Matt was in those days: a shadow who’d lost his referent. Maybe even hoping, in Near, to find a new one.

But Near, being Near, had not pushed the issue. He let Matt be, and the distance between them remained the same as it ever was.

_Your mother was distant too_ , some small voice in his mind points out.

No, not in the comfortably neutral way that Matt was, he corrects himself. It was different with her. She had feared and loathed him –

_– loathed you more than Mello ever could_ , the voice taunts again.

He’s not sure why he keeps being pulled this same fruitless direction today, or why he can’t seem to stop himself.

Fingers curl into his hair, retreading familiar pathways through colorless silk. He resists the urge to rub his twitching eyes. Maybe his visual cortex is getting restless from the lack of input, looking to his memories simply for stimulation. Maybe the excess brain power, frustrated with disuse, keeps turning to introspection simply for exercise.

Whatever the reason, the images come to him, unbidden but not wholly unexpected. A dirty, undecorated hut. Flies swarming in stale air that quivers with visible heat. Mosquito netting over a reluctantly shared bed. A tanned face, half-forgotten, framed with black hair and dominated by suspicious eyes.

She had been as superstitious as the rest of the villagers, and rarely said a word to him. She and her outcast son had merely tolerated each other, interacting only so much as two people living under the same roof had to, and becoming more distant each day. Perhaps she’d hoped that his affliction would pass – that his hair would darken, his cheeks redden, his irises at last become distinct from his pupils – and as each day passed without change could only despise him further, and despise herself for bringing such a creature into the world.

A spiteful smile comes upon his face. How she must have cursed him on the day she died, how hate-filled her last thoughts must have been, as she burned and died in place of the monster she had borne...

_Who’s the distant one, really?_

His smile fades instantly as his thoughts blaze onward to the unidentified body Lester told him about that morning. The idea of Mello dying that way, dying just like she did, as he looked on from a safe distance... That is the worst kind of irony he can imagine, and now the idea eats away at him more aggressively than it did when the news was fresh. He never saw any file photos, and so instead the insidious idea conjures up its own horrid images that he can’t look away from: desiccated collapsing flesh, ribcage sunken and broken, oily black patches of melted leather, a head that no longer had a face, teeth with no lips to cover them, wiry blond ashes, a half-melted silver cross and ruined prayer beads. It boils deep down in his gut and tears up his chest and burns a line through his throat like so much overflowing stomach acid, until he can't be sure if what he really needs is a friend to share this pain or just a glass of milk.

_A friend? You?_ the niggling little voice laughs.

Yes. He realizes that he wouldn’t mind sharing Matt’s company again. A quiet, unobtrusive, indifferent companion, sitting in the shadows nearby, asking for nothing but to share the space... A strangely pleasant notion, gutted by the aching knowledge that they might have been friends if only he’d tried...

_You’re only in this for yourself._

Maybe he only really cares because Matt had been closer to Mello than Near could ever dream of being. Maybe because he’s the only other person in the world who would mourn that damned reckless jerk.

_You won’t mourn anybody. You don’t know how._

The imagined corpse invades his mind again, and immediately he scrambles for the edge of the bed and retches onto the floor.


	6. Acid

He awakens to the boom of a thunderclap, not sure how he managed to fall asleep again or how long ago that was. His mind’s eye is swirling with dove-feather angels and obsidian demons, after-images of a nightmare he’s already forgetting.

His physical eyes only see a black void, and he nearly panics.

The room flashes and vibrates. It’s enough to prove he’s not completely blind – at least not yet. He pulls back from the edge of panic and concentrates on finding a point of reference.

The next burst of lightning is bigger, and the whole room becomes a blurry grey still-life. There’s a sizeable lump further down the flat canvas that is his bed, which can only be a crumpled pile of sheets and blankets. The lightning quivers thrice more before the first raindrop hits the windowpane; the strobe light barely allows him to see the shape of the nearby dresser before it all goes black again. Still, each flash only makes it clearer that his vision has worsened since that morning.

He rubs at his eyes and finds them unusually crusty. He lets his fingers trace dried salt trails down his cheeks, and remembers. His stomach had been rather empty, and yet so violent was the urge to empty it further that the heaving had wracked his little body and forced tears from his eyes. He must have passed out right after. He’s almost glad he can’t see well enough to know if any vomit got on his clothes or bed.

His mouth still feels burned from the acid and tastes horribly stale; his teeth feel like they’ve grown a layer of moss. His head, too, is pounding in time with the rain that now pummels the window. He’s slept too long.

Another electric gash opens up the black sky, so close that he can see the white branches fork apart even through clouded eyes and sheer window-curtains. The thunder that follows feels like it could bring the whole building down.

Without thinking, Near grabs at the mound of bedclothes and pulls as much of the twisted fabric over himself as he can.

His irrational fear makes him feel like an idiot, but then his frail fingers find the leg of his favorite robot under the mess of sheets and he doesn't _care_ how idiotic it is.

He pulls the hard plastic toy to his chest and curls around it until he has buried himself from head to foot in a fetal position beneath his lumpy shroud. The robot's square edges poke at him, but he only hugs his arm tighter around himself and brings the toy closer. His other hand worms its way up into his hair, and the fingers dive in, deeper and deeper into tangled locks, until it seems they’ll be stuck there forever. Only then does he feel comfortable enough to allow himself a long, sighing breath.

He’s never quite known where this particular phobia came from, but the added uncertainty of near-blindness makes it far worse.

The rain continues to beat on his window unceasingly, but the thunder soon becomes softer and less erratic, less frightening. A regularity and rhythm sets in. His face is hot, his breath trapped under the covers with him, but he at last is calm.

Something pounds on his door, and his nerves jump all over again.

“Near?” comes Gevanni's voice. “Are you in there?”

He shuffles out from under the covers quick as he can, face still flushed, cursing both himself and Gevanni under his breath.

His door clicks opens and he hears the young agent’s Oxfords take two tentative steps into the room. “Near? Are you still asleep?”

He sits up in the center of his bed, scowling. “Clearly I am not anymore, Agent Gevanni. What is it?”

“I, uh... Do you mind if I turn a light on, sir?”

“By all means.”

Soft lamp light chases away the blackness in the room and confirms his earlier assessment: his vision has gotten much worse. Everything is a featureless blur, and he can hardly say for sure where the four corners of his bed are, much less those of the room itself. He scowls deeper and digs his fingers back into his hair.

“Anyway, you’ve been asleep for a long time – longer than normal, at least for you – and then this storm hit, so...” His voice drops off, as if distracted.

“Have there been any new developments?” Near asks impatiently. He can well enough guess why the young agent has suddenly trailed off into silence.

“You’ve been sick,” Gevanni says flatly, confirming that guess. “How long ago did that happen? Why didn’t you call one of us?”

“It was... an isolated incident. I’m fine now.” He hears nervousness in his own voice, and doesn’t like it. “Answer my question, Gevanni. Has anything happened while I’ve been away?”

“Well no, sir, not really. We were all just worried about you.”

“I may not look it, but I _am_ an adult. I would appreciate if you all would stop mollycoddling me like some sick child.”

He doesn’t feel very mature in saying so; in fact, he rather feels like pouting. He averts his face from Gevanni’s gaze (or attempts to, based on a rough estimation of where Gevanni’s gaze is) and focuses his frustrations on kicking away the bulky covers that still impede his legs.

“It wasn’t intended as an insult,” Gevanni says, sounding oddly insulted himself. Near doesn’t particularly care if he is.

“I do have senses other than vision. This temporary impairment does not mean that I am helpless.” Near pulls the tangled hair from around his fingers and clutches the robot in his lap, but does not move from his spot on the bed. He’s having trouble gauging how far down the floor is, and where exactly the bed ends. For a silent, indecisive moment, he rubs both his thumbs over the toy's ridged feet. Gevanni shuffles restlessly.

“You’ll want to scoot over to your right a bit, so you don’t... step in it, sir.”

Although not openly acknowledging it, he heeds his subordinate’s advice, still clutching the robot in one hand. Slowly, his feet spill over the edge of the mattress and find purchase on the cold floor below. It feels like an accomplishment, and that sickens him.

“Need a hand?”

“I told you, no.”

There is not much room, he knows, between the bed and the wide, heavy dresser where he keeps his many sets of identical white pajamas. He trusts his own estimations and familiarity with the space enough to venture, though.

He stands unsteadily, robot dangling by its arm from his left hand. His button-up pajama shirt feels crooked, and the loose bottoms sag lower on his hips than usual. He’d adjust his clothing if Gevanni weren’t right there, probably staring at him. It seems undignified.

He takes his first step forward and immediately trips, foot caught in a low-hanging pant leg.

Near is more horrified by the arms that catch him than he is of cracking his skull open on the dresser.

_“Don’t touch me!”_ he hisses in Gevanni’s face, squirming and shoving with the unthinking desperation of a wild animal caught in a trap.

He might as well have been a puppy. Gevanni forces him back onto solid footing with what feels like embarrassingly little effort.

“Near,” he says patiently, letting him go except for a steadying hand on his shoulder. “It’s gotten worse, hasn’t it? You can’t even see your own feet.”

“Hands off,” the albino snarls, nursing wounded pride. Gevanni sighs, but takes the offending hand away.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Near silently blinks and tries to look from side to side. He can’t even find where these supposed fingers are.

“It doesn’t matter,” he grumbles.

“Near, none of us will respect you any less for needing help. That's why you have us in the first place, isn't it?”

Near pointedly refuses to answer. He tugs up his waistband and straightens his shirt in as subtle a manner as possible, his face burning with shame as unpleasant gears turn in his head.

“Agent Gevanni,” he says seriously, “our success in catching Kira depends entirely upon my abilities. If this situation continues, if this... _handicap_ is more than temporary...”

“We’ll work together and find a way to deal with it,” Gevanni says easily, _too_ easily. It pisses him off like few things ever have. He balls his empty hand into a fist, slams it backwards into the dresser, and finally yells into the formless void around him.

“Don’t you _get it?!”_

_I’ve already lost the game._

“Don’t _any_ of you simpletons understand what this means?!”

_Kira’s defeated us both without even trying._

“My weakness is a death sentence for all of us!”

_Mello died for nothing._

 “So _why_ are you all so _fucking_ eager to accept this?!”

He’s seething, has nearly squeezed the arm off his poor robot, and both his hands are throbbing.

And for a moment, Gevanni just stands there.

“Maybe... because we _are_ simpletons, compared to you,” he finally says, quietly. “I think we forget that you’re human, sometimes. It’s almost... _nice_ , to know you’ve actually got weaknesses.”

Near twists his fingers into his hair and tucks his robot safely into the crook of an elbow. The uncharacteristic anger leaves as suddenly as it came, and he feels more like himself again.

“A bit of schadenfreude, I suppose?” he asks, smirking. _It’s better than pity._

Gevanni chuckles pleasantly. “Something like that.”

Beside him, Near hears the soft squeak of one of his dresser drawers opening, and the shuffling of the clothes inside it. “What are you doing?”

“I figured you’d want to wash up before we head back to HQ, get a change of clothes...”

Near jerks involuntarily, pulling his robot away from his shirt and looking – or trying to look – down at himself. He realizes he’s been sleeping, tossing, and turning in his bed wearing a potentially vomit-soaked shirt. He resists the urge to tear it off right in front of Gevanni, who’s started laughing lightly at him.

“Don’t worry, there’s only a little spot on it.”

Near resents him just a little bit for not telling him where this ‘spot’ is. He continues to stand there, awkwardly avoiding touching his own shirt, while Gevanni finishes his shuffling and closes the drawer. He can do little else, since he can’t see the floor to avoid the mess there either.

“Okay, ready to go?”

“You may lead the way. I will follow.” That’s enough of a concession, he thinks. Apparently Gevanni disagrees. Foreign skin touches Near’s hand, and he twists away from it. Gevanni lets out an exaggerated huff.

“ _Take my hand_ , Near.”

“No.”

“Near, with all due respect, I'm not going to let you hurt yourself doing something as trivial as _walking to the bathroom_ ,” Gevanni says sternly, surprising Near with the authority in his voice. He grabs Near’s wrist. “It’s my job to protect you. So you’ll just have to quit being stubborn and deal with it.”

Near says nothing to defend himself this time. He has no logical ground to stand on anyway. He’s never denied how cumbersome his aversion to human contact can be, and in this situation it is absolutely impractical to continue avoiding it. He knows this. He hates the truth of it.

He hugs his robot against his chest, deriving what relief he can from its hard lifeless form, and reluctantly nods acceptance.

Gevanni’s hand slips from Near’s sleeved wrist and clasps his bare hand instead, engulfing it like a child’s. He cringes at the violation of his skin, and squeezes his robot until its pointed corners dig painfully into him, but lets the older man lead him out of the room that way without protest. It feels like being pulled through a thick fog; the most he can discern with his eyes is the change from the soft lamplight of the bedroom to the harsher florescence of the hallway.

Gevanni lets him keep his dignity in the washroom, at least. He walks him inside, stopping him in front of the sink and placing the clean clothes beside it. He doesn’t argue when Near declines any personal assistance, and patiently stands outside the closed door while Near meticulously washes his face and hands, brushes his teeth, and changes clothes. He leaves the discarded ones on the floor – as with the vomit in his bedroom, someone could attend to it later. He hides Mello’s picture inside his new shirt, after carefully inspecting it by touch to make sure no vomit had defiled it.

Upon exiting the bathroom, he raises up his robot-free hand and allows Gevanni to take it without fuss. This time Near walks at his side, instead of being pulled behind him. It only serves to make the silence more noticeable.

“You know,” the agent says as they stand waiting for the elevator, “you’re not alone in this.”

Near blinks, pondering, and looks uselessly in his direction. The sentiment is awkward, but sincere, much like the man himself.

He looks ahead again, toward the elevator he cannot see. “No, I suppose not.”

They fall silent again, until the elevator dings and the doors swoosh open. He’s tugged forward onto the shaky floor of the contraption.

“Is it really so bad holding hands with me?” Gevanni asks with an uncomfortable laugh as they descend. “Maybe that’s why I have such a hard time getting dates, huh?”

Near sighs. “You are a very strange man, Agent Gevanni.”

“Coming from you, Near, I'd say that's a compliment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That scene turned out too long, I think... But hey, at least something kinda happened this chapter, right? :P
> 
> This was the last section I wrote for the first draft of this story ages ago, and is probably to blame for why I never finished it. It was pretty bad. I cut out a ton of it, reworked what was left, and wrote new stuff to fill the gaps, but hopefully it doesn’t feel as choppy as all that. I really liked the dialogue with Gevanni, though, so I decided it was worth running a little long to keep most of that stuff in there. 
> 
> Despite those problems, this chapter is probably my favorite (other than the final one), and is meant to parallel the one with Halle. Basically, Halle was a catalyst (because Near wouldn’t have delved quite this deeply into his own emotional baggage, sudden blindness or no, without someone first ripping into it a little). Gevanni was meant to instigate a breakthrough, letting some of that baggage be dealt with in advance of the story’s end. Not that his issues are solved – not by a long shot – but he’s at least begun facing them instead of continuing to ignore them. (Yay psychobabble.)


	7. Shroud

He knows it isn’t getting better.

All he sees now is a continuous dull blur of light and dark. He can decipher basic features of things, provided he holds them up to his nose. The minimal usefulness of this sad talent is hardly worth how undignified it feels to employ it.

Sometimes the haze in his eyes abates for a while, leaving him with half-competent vision. Sometimes he blinks his eyes and has a few moments of almost clarity until he blinks it into oblivion again. His new status quo has set the bar so low that even the smallest and briefest improvement is noted and appreciated, and subsequently mourned.

The space around him has not changed, but the uniform fogginess of his surroundings is suffocating and claustrophobic.

He sleeps more often than usual, the increased difficulty of everything he does tiring him easily. He sometimes dreams of being trapped in a coffin, buried but kept alive as some cruel joke. He awakens still gripped by paranoia, convinced (if only for a second) that the sounds of the open room around him are mere recordings, piped into his tomb through hidden speakers to fool him into a false security. It’s the kind of torture method he imagines Mello might devise.

The SPK itself, though, is at least not getting worse.

It has taken surprisingly little time for the team to adjust to Near’s handicap, much to their credit. After just a couple of days they almost have a routine again, with Gevanni and his meticulous attention to detail watching newscasts to glean the visual clues Near would normally have looked for, Halle monitoring the less official channels and using her natural feminine charisma to pull whatever strings needed pulling, and Lester, as usual, managing most everything else. He hovers over Near like a vulture – or, he supposes, ‘a protective father’ might be a more apt description, but he’s never had one of those and isn’t quite sure if the moniker fits. Near begrudgingly accepts the extra attention, and as the days pass he finds himself less and less irritated by it. After all, L had Watari to dote on him and attend to his personal needs, and so, quite logically, it follows that Near should feel no shame in Lester’s assistance.

Since the day he had been led by the hand to headquarters, practically blind and verging on despondent, the team as a whole had given him surprisingly little grief. They had seemed earnest enough as they professed their willingness to help in any way possible; he’s never overheard them grumbling about the situation behind his back, at least, nor sensed dissatisfaction from them when giving orders. In turn, he too had ultimately decided not to complain – to better monitor himself and avoid spitting out his frustrations at them, as he’d unfortunately already done twice now. It was an ugly side of himself that they needn’t see again, and it wasn’t conducive to their work either. All four of them had adopted a stiff upper lip and carried on with their duties, together.

Near did, however, complain quite a lot about one thing: the computers. Rather than have the team constantly stand around reading things to him, wasting their valuable time and talents, he rightly decided it would be more efficient for him to take in as much information as possible directly from the computers. Unfortunately, the only way to do it was to use the text-to-speech function. Listening to that horrid voice made his skin crawl. It was maddeningly slow, and the intonations were all wrong. He had tried setting it at the fastest speed available, which not only was still slower than his usual reading speed, but made the awful robotic voice sound that much worse.

After a day and a half of wishing he were deaf as well as blind, he broke down and had Lester procure a braille printer. (An education at the Wammy House was nothing if not extremely thorough.) He then proceeded to have all his hundreds and thousands of pages of reports and data printed out as he needed them. The room was filled with paper in very short order, but at least the quiet clutter allowed Near to retain his sanity.

Most of it, anyway.

He is there before the rest of the team each morning, as ever, and sitting amongst the mess of braille-imprinted paper he still indulges in his morning ritual. It’s either driving him mad or keeping him grounded, he can’t tell which and no longer cares, really. He’s compelled to take out the photo, even if he can’t truly see it. He can hold it in his hands and know precisely what it looks like, from Mello’s blue eyes to the miniscule flaws along the edges of the glossy paper, and that comforts him. It’s the one thing he can see clearly without needing to see at all.

He flips it over each time, traces his fingers over the back, finds the pen-scratched words. _Dear Mello._

He never did know who wrote it. It had already been there when the photo fell into his possession some four years ago. Probably it was some girl at the orphanage with an ill-fated crush.

_Perhaps Matt,_ he thinks with a secret smile.

Inevitably Lidner and Gevanni will wander in, and he’ll snap out of his reverie. He’ll hide his guilty little treasure in his shirt again and get back to work.

And yet, every morning ritual completed means another day has passed with no word of Mello.

He should be giving his full focus to the investigation, since his damnable handicap does nothing but slow it down. He knows this, and tries to remind himself of it when his thoughts start to drift toward that same inevitable subject. Even when he pushes the worry aside, his useless eyes allow all manner of images to flow freely through his mind. His fingers might be busy reading bumps of data from a police report, but he’d be seeing blond hair and half-eaten chocolate and a walking talking heartache wrapped in vitriol and black leather.

That is the problem with genius. Simply not thinking about something is never an option. Thinking is all he knows how to do.

Besides, there’s a different niggling little thought that’s been building momentum ever since the night he phoned Roger.

One day he finally breaks down and pulls Gevanni from his usual tasks. He has him pore over the satellite footage, as if that hadn’t been done many times already. Only this time he’s not looking for Mello – he’s looking for glitches.

If his hunch is right, the tampering won’t be easy to find; if it was, they’d have noticed it from the get-go. He has Gevanni focus on the span of footage taken after the Japanese task force pulled out of the area and before the LAPD arrived – they’d clearly been busy that day, as that was nearly an hour’s time.

There’s no evidence of hacking in the data stream itself. Gevanni insists over and over that no one could possibly have hacked their live satellite feed, and certainly not without them detecting it. Near is much more insistent than his subordinate, however, and so he keeps on looking.

Hours later, he finds something.

“It’s about ten minutes after everything goes quiet. There’s a 12-second stretch that’s been replaced with stock footage from the preceding ten minutes,” Gevanni explains. “It’s like that old security camera trick, where a crook will loop the footage to cover up their presence. Only this isn’t just looped – it’s bits and pieces of footage pulled from different points in the video feed, just a few random frames at a time. It’s no wonder we didn’t catch it.”

“And this blocked the satellite from recording what actually occurred during that time?” Near interrupts, his heartbeat impatiently picking up speed.

“Exactly. And it happens again...” Near can hear Gevanni fiddling with the computer. “Here, about eight minutes later. This time it’s longer, 47 seconds of it.”

Near smiles, just a little. It all fits. A quick dash into the building – he must have had a remote device to start and stop the junk footage – then several minutes to find what he was looking for, and then another interruption of the satellite feed to shroud his slow escape.

47 seconds. Time enough to walk an injured friend out of the building.

Time enough to shoulder the burden of a friend’s charred corpse.

Time enough to walk out empty-handed, no longer having any reason to hurry.

His smile disappears. All it means is that Matt was there. It gives him no further insight into Mello’s fate.

“Whoever did this must’ve had one hell of an elaborate setup prepared. They were probably monitoring our satellites long before this, figuring out our system...”

Near sighs, raggedly. He’s tired all the way down to his bones, and wishes Gevanni would just shut up.

“It doesn’t matter. You may return to your other work now.”

The young agent makes a rather undignified squeak of shock. “B-but sir, we’ve just discovered a serious security breach here! We need to –”

“Drop it, Gevanni,” Near cuts him off, a little too harshly. “He’s no threat.”

“... _he_ , sir?”

He really shouldn’t have said that. Too many little things were slipping out of his mouth without extended forethought these days.

He immediately excuses himself to the bathroom – it’s the one place they let him go without an escort. He can get there and back just fine by gripping the walls.

If only it were so easy to keep a grip on himself.


	8. Beauty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the end! This little fic is near and dear to my heart (ha, puns), and I’m glad to finally have gotten it all out of my system. Enjoy, and please let me know what you think of it. :)

“Mello..?!”

Near drops the file he’s been reading, hundreds of braille bumps slipping wordlessly past fingers that have suddenly gone numb.

“Near!” Gevanni exclaims. “It’s Mello, he’s here!”

“What in hell is going on..?” he hears Lester mutter before addressing him. “Near, he’s got Halle at gunpoint. They’re in the building, headed this way.”

“Let them in,” Near decides hastily, scrambling up from the floor. He knocks into a pile of dice that clack softly into a pool around his feet.

“But sir—”

“I said _let him in_ , damn it. That’s an order.” Near blindly stumbles through the dice field, walking on top of them in socked feet. He’s dully aware of the dice biting into his feet like jagged rocks; the pain is there, but his mind is racing too fast for it to fully register.

Gevanni is there in an instant, taking one of the arms he’s stretched out for balance and guiding him away from the debris. Across the room he hears Lester opening the door, and zeroes in on the disapproving grunt he makes doing it. Gevanni says something to him, but his attention is on that door.

Gevanni breaks contact. He can hear the two men’s shoes quickly tapping on the smooth hard floor. They’re moving into a defensive flanking position between himself and the door, he surmises. Shuffling leather and buckles: they’re drawing their guns.

The familiar sound of Lidner’s heels is clicking toward the door now, with unfamiliar footfalls following step for step behind her. Near’s heart races. _Could it really be..?_

Near rubs his eyes and blinks furiously. A spark of hope – something he always thought a stupid concept – has begun to burn in his chest, and maybe, just maybe, some little part of him thinks he might will himself to see that doorway.

He doesn’t, of course. It’s only a dark blur, like all the rest of the room save the bright monitors on the walls. Even so, that little hope burns on.

They’re in the room.

“Drop your weapon!” Lester booms, military authority clear in his voice. For a moment, the room is still – a standoff.

A chuckle resonates darkly off the glowing walls, and he can hear the smug grin in it. His stomach hitches.

_“Near!”_ the newcomer yells. There’s laughter and contempt in it, there’s scheming bravado in it, and there’s a roughness to it that wasn’t there four years ago. Under it all is wrath, pain... rage. It’s a voice that cuts into the core of him and makes Near’s legs feel weak, though his face stays a practiced blank.

“Welcome, Mello,” he says, instead of falling to his shaky knees. His voice is soft against the unnerving silence that the room has fallen into. “You survived after all, I see.”

He hears a sudden movement, and Lidner’s heels take three quick steps without Mello following. He’s released her, Near assumes.

“I won’t give you a third chance, Mello. Drop the gun _now_ ,” Lester says.

Near finds his backbone. “That goes for all of you. Put your guns down. There’s no point in shedding blood here.”

“Please Mello, listen to him,” Lidner pleads in a curiously informal tone. “You know that if you kill him, we’ll be forced to kill you, too.”

Near blinks his eyes, desperate to see something, anything. Is Mello really pointing a gun at him? It’s not entirely surprising, but after all the agonizing he’d done in these long, sightless days, he can’t help feeling betrayed.

“What good will it do for both of you to die?” she continues. “It only means Kira will have defeated you both without even trying!”

A chill runs through him like déjà vu. Perhaps Lidner is more perceptive than he gives her credit for.

A sigh, and then a shuffling of leather and feet. The tension in the room seems to lift slightly. He can only hope it’s because at least one gun has been holstered.

“She’s right, of course,” Mello says, sounding closer. His voice is definitely different than Near remembers, deeper, and gravelly. “Anyway, I just came for what’s mine.”

He only blinks in response. A vaguely human-shaped blur has begun to distinguish itself from the surrounding dark, and he directs his blinking toward it, though he can’t be sure who it is, or if it’s even a person he’s seeing.

Mello huffs at his lack of reply. Near is certain he’s rolling his eyes at him. “Halle tells me you have a photo.”

His heart jumps into his throat, and he resists the urge to cough and choke on it as he’s pulling the precious, dangerous slip of glossy paper from the secret pocket inside his shirt.

_Of course she told him,_ a cruel little voice in his head whispers. _Why else would he have come? To see_ you _?_

He holds it up and turns it toward the spot where he thinks Mello is standing.

“Don’t worry,” he tells him, almost unconsciously, as if someone else is speaking through him while he stands there staring blankly at a formless nothing. “There are no copies, and no one outside of this room has ever laid eyes on it.”

Mello grunts in response, and he hears him slowly come closer. He can tell now that Mello’s wearing some kind of boots. They make a heavy sound on the floor. Every step resounds with a deep finality.

It had never belonged to Mello, this photograph he’s come to claim. It belonged to someone who cherished it enough to hide it when Mello left, when all traces should have been destroyed. It has belonged to Near for a while now, and perhaps he's cherished it too. But in reality, he has merely been its carrier. In a world where Kira exists, he has no right to claim ownership on even this small fragment of Mello's identity. He has no right to the horrible ache that stabs him in the gut when the photo is snatched away. He has no right to the irrational, desperate thought invading his mind – that losing the photo might mean he'd never see Mello's face again.

He squashes the feeling, like he squashes most things.

The photo turns over in Mello’s hand, glossy surface softly squeaking between what can only be leather-clad fingers.

He winces despite himself. _He’s going to think you wrote that. How pathetic._

“You’re going to destroy it, I suppose,” he hears himself say. He hadn’t squashed it down far enough.

“I had intended to, but...” A soft, self-deprecating laugh rumbles out of Mello. Near blinks. It’s not a sound he remembers ever hearing Mello make before. “It’s all that’s left of my pretty face. Maybe I should keep it.”

“What are you talking about..?”

Mello growls – now _that’s_ a sound he’s used to. Instantly he’s got a fist twisted into Near’s shirt, and he’s yanking him forward and yelling in his face.

“Are you _blind_ , you little shit? _Look_ at me!”

Chocolate breath buffets his face and fills his nostrils. He’s barely grounded enough to hear the guns being raised again in the background before his agents start yelling at Mello to let go of him.

“Put your guns down before I fire all three of you!” he shouts over the noise. The room, even Mello, goes quiet. Mello’s never heard him raise his voice before, Near realizes.

“Lidner,” he starts again, back to his usual quiet tone, “you didn’t tell him about _that_ , did you?”

“N-no, sir.”

He feels the hand fisted in his shirt slacken and Mello’s stare intensify. He could swear the blur before him is changing colors to match it.

“What the hell kind of game are you playing at, Near?” Mello’s voice is still harsh, unforgiving, but the fire and rage have dropped out of it. “You’re wearing colored contacts or something, right?”

“It’s not a trick, Mello,” Lidner butts in. “He’s really—”

“Blind,” Mello finishes.

“Close to it, yes,” Near confirms. Mello lets go of his shirt, and Near wonders if perhaps he’s looking past him now, to the lopsided dice towers and uncharacteristic mess, to the deceptively blank-looking papers scattered everywhere, imprinted with tiny bumps.

He doubts that Mello could ever pity him, but he hates the possibility, and decides to change the subject. “Just how did you survive, Mello?”

“I had some help... from an old friend.” He can almost hear a smile in his voice.

“I thought as much.” A little smile sneaks onto Near’s face as well. “I am glad he found you.”

“Yeah, me too.” Mello’s stance shifts, heavy clothes rustling. There’s a soft _fwip_ that sounds like paper – the photo being stashed away in a pocket, probably. “I didn’t exactly come out unscathed, though.”

“Your face..?”

“Among other things,” he grumbles. “I got burned pretty bad. He patched me up as well as he could, but...”

Near finds his hands have balled up into determined little fists at his side. Nails dig into his palms. A wild urge smacks him. His useless eyes turn wide.

“Let me see.”

“Uh, how exactly—”

“The way the blind see faces, by touch.”

“...you’ve gotta be fucking with me.”

He already regrets voicing this ridiculous request, and scolds himself for speaking without proper forethought for the hundredth time in recent memory, but it’s too late. His hands are tingling, his left eye is starting to twitch, and his pride won’t let him back down now.

“I handed over the photograph, did I not?” he asks, cold and calculated and far calmer than he feels. “You could at least grant me this small favor in return, Mello.”

His rival leaves him hanging for what feels far longer than a moment before huffing and puffing in a familiar bluster of ever-present anger. It’s astounding how nice it feels to hear that again.

“Damn it, _fine_.”

“Thank you.”

“But only because I owe you for the picture.”

“Of course.” Mello huffs again at the flippant response. Near’s old habit of baiting him had never died in all this time.

“I swear, if this is all just some weird perversion of yours...”

The reddish blur in front of him is more distinctly human-shaped now, and it takes a step closer to him. Near reaches out a hand, slowly. No sense rushing in and potentially poking Mello in the eye. Chances of defeating Kira with both of them visually impaired were rather low, after all.

His best guess at the facial area lands his fingers upon faux fur and heavy fabric.

Mello snorts at him, sending a little puff of chocolate air his way again. “Shit, you really _are_ blind.”

A hand gloved in velvety leather grabs Near’s and guides it toward skin. At least, two fingers touch skin. His ring and pinky fingers brush upon something rough and scaly where skin used to be.

Mello lets go of his hand, letting Near freely traverse the jagged line between scar tissue and skin. The divide is stark, his face like a patchwork hastily sewn together by an unsteady hand. He follows the seam up Mello’s cheek, across the bridge of his nose, and over his brow, where uneven bangs poke at his fingers. Mello’s hair had always looked so clean and soft, but now it feels coarse, the ends frayed and sharp.

Near moves fully onto the scarred half of his forehead, fingers trailing over the bumps and ridges of the ruined flesh, as if to read it. Although the surface is tough, it feels abnormally warm, like there’s still a fire burning under it. Mello winces, just barely.

“Does it still hurt?” he whispers. He should have thought to ask before now.

“No, not really.”

Mello closes his left eye when he comes to it. There’s no eyebrow above it, not a bit of unmarred skin left around it, and even the eyelid feels damaged. Near’s left eye twitches, as if sympathetic to it. The red of the blur before him seems to have deepened.

“I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I can still see out of it.” The eye flutters open as Near’s fingers leave it. Sparse, wiry lashes have grown through the scar tissue like weeds through concrete. They scratch his fingers rather than tickle them.

“How ironic,” Near murmurs, moving down the side of his face. He finds that Mello’s ear, at least, had mostly been spared.

“Had to keep it shut while it healed up, but when the bandages came off, I still had sight in it. Fuckin’ miracle I guess.”

_Miraculous enough that you’re alive, you dolt._

He follows the scarring below the ear and down the side of his neck. Suddenly feeling awkward, he tentatively adds a second hand to speed the process along. He at least can find the other side of Mello’s face without help, and runs his fingertips along the smooth jawline.

Mello hums low in the back of his throat. It shudders through Near’s fingers. “No burns on that side,” he says, but not in a scolding way.

Mello is amazingly patient, in fact, as Near meticulously pores over every remaining inch of his face, burnt and unburnt. He is memorizing every bit of it, piecing a mental image together like one of his puzzles. He can see it almost as clearly as he might with working eyes. It might be the last image he ever gets, and this is certain to be the one and only time Mello would ever allow Near to touch him this way, so he’s determined to get as much out of this favor as he can.

He recognizes the strange intimacy of it, and notes the absence of his usual anxiety over skin-to-skin contact. He remembers, too, that there are three other people in the room watching this odd encounter in awkward silence. And he realizes he doesn’t give a damn about any of that.

The past he tortures himself with is immutable. The future is less predictable than he’s comfortable with. But in the present, there’s only Mello, living and breathing in his hands, and his mind, for once, is calm.

He lets his eyes slip shut, indulging in the moment, and finds when he opens them that he can see his ashen hands, even distinguish them from Mello’s flesh. It’s still blurry, but he can see a swath of dingy yellow where his hair is, and the red and black of his clothes. He focuses on Mello’s face, and details begin to emerge. He stops breathing, refuses to blink, for fear of losing this sudden clarity.

Mello smirks, and Near's cold little heart skips a beat, because he doesn't just know it by the sardonic little _“keh”_ that’s accompanied all of Mello's smirks since at least the age of eight. He’s actually, really seeing it – the awkward shift of his damaged cheek, the curve of his thin lips, the sharp sapphire of his eyes. Near lets his hands fall away just to get a better look.

Wishful thinking, perhaps, but he could swear that in this smirk, in this moment, Mello didn’t hate him.

“Guess we're both damaged goods now, huh?” Mello says, almost sadly, almost bitterly.

Unable to keep his eyes open any longer, Near blinks the blissful half-vision away.

“Does that make us even, at last?” he asks, afraid to open his eyes on nothingness again.

But then Mello’s hand is on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly, as if they’re old friends. It shocks him into opening his eyes.

And like a miracle, his vision is perfectly clear.

His clothes are worn, his rosary is tarnished, his hair is shaggy and dirty, half his face is disfigured and pink, and his blue eyes look tired far beyond his years... but he’s _Mello_ , and he's _alive_ , and he’s _here_ , _now_ , and he's more beautiful than the photograph, more beautiful than the most vivid memory or most wonderful dream. He’s painfully, heart-achingly beautiful, like nothing Near has ever seen before or ever will again.

“Even? No, not by a long shot,” Mello says, grinning, “but it's a start.”


End file.
